The Dreadful Homicide of Jack Daniels
by Unbeautifully-Broken
Summary: Lisbon is fired for her lack of control over Jane--and surprisingly, he feels just a little bit guilty about it. Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist.


The Dreadful Homicide of Jack Daniels

For Susan

The door to CBI Agent Teresa Lisbon's office opened quickly, causing the set of blinds over its window to clang loudly against the glass. "My office--now," Hightower said, and she left as abruptly as she'd entered.

Lisbon tossed the pen she had been using to sign paperwork off to the side, tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath through her mouth and sighed, already knowing exactly what her new boss wanted to discuss with her.

And then--speak of the devil!--the door opened again and Patrick Jane, arrogant, blonde and almost supernaturally intuitive consultant to the CBI--stepped inside. His expression was the exact opposite of Hightower's, (a grin the size of California) and if that didn't confirm that Lisbon's imminent dismissal was _all his fault_, she had no idea what could.

"What did you do this time?" Lisbon asked. She hoped he understood it was a rhetorical question.

"Well, I caught the bad guy. Nasty little fellow--bit of an ear fetish, terrified of minivans, apparently _hated_ his landlord's dog--kind of boring, but hey, what can you do?" He sank down into the chair opposite Lisbon's own and crossed his left leg over his right.

Lisbon glared at him.

"Did you do anything that would put an average person behind bars for life or warrant the death penalty?"

He seemed to be seriously considering that for a moment, and then, still smiling, Jane said, "Hmmm. You know, I actually think there might have been a few minor indiscretions. Anyway, new shampoo? I smell strawberries!"

......

"Sit."

Hightower closed the door behind Lisbon and locked the door. Lisbon followed instructions and sat very quickly, all the while cursing Jane in her head. If she got fired because he'd called someone a one-eyed baboon and they'd attacked him with the mysteriously missing murder weapon...well, that would be pretty interesting, but she would kill him anyway.

"So," the coiffed agent said, taking her own seat, "I suppose you'd like to know why you're here."

"Yes ma'am." Lisbon folded her hands in her lap and held her breath.

"You're probably already aware that it has to do with Patrick Jane." Hightower cocked an eyebrow and pursed her lips inquiringly.

"I had guessed that was the case."

"And you realize that your failure to handle him properly is why I must resort to disciplinary action."

"Yes ma'am, I understand." On the inside, her heart was beating wildly, but on the outside, she won the fight for control over her facial muscles and kept her expression neutral. Jane would have seen right through her, the bastard.

"You seem awfully passive about this."

"I'm not, ma'am. I'm just not surprised, I guess." The petite agent glanced down at the papers on Hightower's desk and realized none of them were "Referral" slips. She swallowed.

"Do you want to know what it is that he's done? So that perhaps you'll understand why the situation calls for severe consequences?" Hightower's voice was a little softer now--she noticed that Lisbon's eyes were shining and she was taking slow, deep breaths.

"It doesn't matter." Lisbon answered. Her superior only looked at her inquisitively. "No--I don't want to know. Thank you." It was all she could say.

Hightower looked squarely into Lisbon's averted eyes, pulled her lips into her mouth and nodded. Then she stood, prompting Lisbon to do the same.

"Teresa Lisbon, you're a damned fine agent, but I can no longer justify your position with the CBI. I'm going to have to ask you to return your weapon and government authorized CBI identification to me at this time."

Lisbon swallowed again and mechanically did as she was told. It was so formal. She'd poured her whole life into her career, she had put everything on the line--she had no friends, no family of her own--and just like that, with two sentences, her life was over. Finished. Gone.

She turned around and twisted the doorknob so that it unlocked--but she didn't open it. She had to think. She couldn't go back to her office to collect her things, because Jane would be there and he would know exactly what had happened just by looking at her. She wasn't close enough to Van Pelt or Rigsby or even Cho to endure a tearful, humiliating "goodbye." She could go straight home and bypass them all, then call ahead in a few days to be sure Jane wasn't in the office, and then she could bring a nice cardboard box to put her things in--

"Teresa? Are you alright?" Hightower asked, genuinely concerned.

Lisbon tore the door open and walked briskly down the hall to the elevator. The man inside eyed her curiously (he'd been kind enough to hold the door for her) like he wanted to ask her the same question Hightower had. Lisbon dared him to do just that with a glare. Then, just as the doors were closing, she glanced down the hall to see Jane casually making his way toward her, obviously expecting her to wait for him or at least come back again. Jane's face was at first filled with teasing and warmth, as usual...and then...it was blank. It had never been so before, and Lisbon would have liked to look at him for a moment longer, but the gleaming elevator doors closed and the stranger beside her asked, "Going down, ma'am?"

_Only if Hell has a basement_, she thought silently.

..................

As soon as he saw her face, he knew. She would be crying before she put her keys in the ignition. Jane ran toward the service elevator, which was located next to the one Lisbon was currently taking to the street level, and pressed the "down" button. And he pressed it again. And again. And again. And he wondered what the hell the stupid button was_ for_, anyway. He turned and saw the emergency exit--if he jumped a few flights of stairs, he would catch her before she left the building. Without thinking, he rushed toward the door and had just pushed it open when Hightower called his name.

"Not now!" Jane called, and he thrust his body out onto the landing and descended the first flight of stairs. His body flew down flight after flight, adrenaline pumping his legs and nearly bursting his heart. Hightower called down to him, but he ignored her. She would tell him to come back, that Lisbon was gone for good, but he would not let her go--especially not when it was, as he knew she'd been thinking, _all his fault._

He shoved the exit door open, knocking Cho (who had been minding his own business up until that point) to the ground with a thud.

"Jane, what the hell!"

"Sorry, Cho! Have you seen Lisbon?" Jane called, still running, leaving his fallen comrade behind.

"What? No! What are you doing?" But Jane ignored him and ran on, weaving his way through the people around him, losing his breath, searching for a head of dark hair attached to a small-framed woman who would probably be wearing black pants and crying.

And he searched with his eyes for a moment, even resorted to calling her name. Then he saw her car pulling out of the parking lot. He swallowed and ran out into the street, pushing people out of his way. "Lisbon!" he called, waving his arms like a fool. "Hey! Lisbon! Teresa!"

If she saw him, he didn't know. But she didn't stop and his body was not what it used to be--and he felt useless and moronic--and somehow, alone.

.............

Eight minutes later (after trying to call Lisbon's cellphone and waiting impatiently on an elevator) Patrick Jane opened the door to Hightower's office and sat down before she had the chance to speak.

"Let me ask you something," Jane said conversationally, holding one finger out in a "just a minute" gesture. "What are you hoping to accomplish by firing Teresa Lisbon?"

Hightower looked up from what she was doing with an expressionless face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in. What can I do for you, Mr. Jane? And why are you so out of breath?" she asked sarcastically.

"You know exactly why I'm out of breath, and you care, too, because if you didn't you wouldn't even put forth the energy it takes to construct a sarcastic comment. But because I'm going to humor you, I'll tell you that I'm out of breath because I just chased your best agent down a million flights of stairs, across a building, a parking lot and part of a street and I'm very annoyed right now because, you know, all that unnecessary physical activity, yeah, all _your_ fault." And he was out of breath again, but he felt he'd gotten his point across nicely. Hightower looked mostly irritated, but a little amused. Jane took a moment to politely dab the sweat from his forehead, and then gestured that she could speak.

"Do I have the floor, prosecutor?"

"Yes, ma'am. Proceed."

"Teresa Lisbon was discharged for failing to complete her duties as a CBI agent. She allowed Van Pelt and Rigsby to share a romantic relationship, she refused to discipline you for your irresponsible behavior, and most importantly," Hightower paused, "she's a liability. She's a damaged person, Mr. Jane. You know what I mean."

"So what? So she let two coworkers have a little fling and she put up with me because I catch the bad guys. And with all due respect, everyone is a little damaged in their own way. Even you. And especially me." Jane cleared his throat. His defense of Lisbon was going a little deeper than he had intended. Something at the back of his mind pricked a little, and he stirred in his chair.

"What are you trying to say? That I've made a mistake?" Hightower sounded as though it was the most ridiculous idea she'd ever heard. Jane resisted the urge to snort.

"Well, I'm saying that if you're going to fire someone based on their personal problems and minor indiscretions in the workplace, it might as well be me." And he was saying it because he was standing up for the oppressed masses everywhere. Not just Lisbon. Not because he liked her or anything. Really. Hightower tried to stare him down. "Actually, what I'm getting at is--" Jane leaned forward and placed his clasped hands on her desk, "I'm going to walk out the door behind me in five minutes. You will sit here with your eyebrow hiked to your hairline for another five minutes pondering if my next claim is to be taken seriously, which is that if Teresa Lisbon is no longer an agent with the CBI, Patrick Jane is no longer its consultant. Are you...catching on or...do I need to speak...more...slowly?"

Jane waved his hand in front of Hightower's frozen face and mentally applauded himself. Boy, was he good.

Thirty seconds later, he was dodging paperweights as he jettisoned out of Hightower's office. Good thing she was as good a pitcher as she was a leader.

"Jane," Cho said, catching him by the arm, "what the hell is going on? Why did you knock me on my ass back there?"

"Really now, how can you be angry?" Jane replied, before heading toward the elevator. "You were the smart guy standing outside the _emergency exit_."

............

Patrick Jane thought very highly of Teresa Lisbon, he could admit that much. Van Pelt had refused to divulge Lisbon's address until Jane explained exactly why he needed it so badly. And, as Jane had predicted, this appealed to Grace Van Pelt's hopeless romantic side (it was small, but it was there--evident by the waterproof mascara and tissues that were sticking out of her purse). Then he headed back to the street for his car.

So, with a destination in mind and a way to get there, all he needed to figure out was what he was going to say to Lisbon. "Gee...sorry I got you fired," he said out loud, testing the words. "Nope. Idiot."

He drove around for a bit, stopped at a flower shop and bought a single white rose. Pink was too girly for Lisbon's taste and red was...too romantic. His nerves were shot, his mind was racing and the sky was dark before he pulled into Teresa Lisbon's driveway.

There weren't any lights on in the house, but her car was parked outside. In the glare of his headlights, Jane could see that it was, as he had expected, a modest home with a few windows and freshly mowed lawn. No garden, as career-driven Lisbon would not have time for such a thing. The shutters were clean and white, though.

He shut off his headlights, killed the engine and clutched the rose tightly in his hand. "Like a first date, only more pathetic," he mumbled to himself, and got out of his car.

As he slowly ascended the steps to her front door, he repeated his carefully constructed explanation in his head. He simulated presenting her with the flower, begging for forgiveness, running away from a hail of bullets. He reached up to knock on the door.

He heard a crash inside, like a table being knocked over. His fist froze mid-knock. Maybe it was her cat?

Another louder noise shattered his hopes. Glass broke against the wall inside Lisbon's home; the rose fell to the ground. Jane was a soft man and really, really didn't like pain, but he somehow found the strength to thrust his shoulder against Lisbon's front door. And, nothing but a bruise.

_Think. Where would she hide a key?_

It then occurred to him that a distraught and newly unemployed Lisbon would not think to lock her door after coming home, nor would a burglar. And feeling like a fool, Jane tried the door--and it opened easily enough to mock the pain in his shoulder.

He stepped inside, being as quiet as he possibly could. The noises continued, and he felt around for something to use as a weapon as he inched toward the commotion. He prayed and hoped and wished for Lisbon to be alive--he simply could not endure the funeral of another dear one. His hand found a light switch. He decided against flicking it on, to avoid alerting the intruder.

The only light came in through the windows from the street lamps outside. Lisbon's living room dissolved into her kitchen, only separated by a row of counters, which blocked Jane's view of the intruder--who, Jane determined, must have been crouched behind them. He checked the room briefly for Lisbon, but did not see her. Jane snagged a closed umbrella from beside the door, intending to use it to defend himself. He edged closer to the kitchen, wondering what he would do if Lisbon lay there injured, or dying--or dead.

With one last step and a deep, hopeful breath, Jane bravely rounded the counter, umbrella in front. His intention was not to attack the stranger, but that was what he did. The umbrella collided with something that did not give way, and which screamed out in surprise.

Jane screamed too--and dropped the umbrella. He waited to be stabbed to death, because there just wasn't anything he could do. Nothing happened. Then a light flicked on.

"You--you attacked me with an umbrella?" Lisbon screeched, staring at Jane, more flabbergasted than he'd ever seen her. He unconsciously stepped forward, and then stopped when he felt something crunch under his shoe. He looked down.

"Lisbon...what's going on?"

The floor was littered with glass of different shades, their liquid contents mixing together in a wet mess on the kitchen floor. Lisbon stood in the middle of it all in bedroom shoes, which had apparently provided enough protection for her feet. Jane took another step forward and glanced in Lisbon's sink--an empty bottle of booze.

Jane looked hard at the woman in front of him.

"What happened to you?"

Lisbon didn't move. She only stood there, her sweatpants soaked around the ankles, her black tank top featuring large wet patches across her chest and abdomen. There was a cut on her thumb and tears of shame in her eyes.

"I guess I fell off the wagon," she murmured, sounding more disturbed than sad.

"Why?"

"Because I'm depressed," she said, stating the obvious.

"Because of me." Jane took another step forward, sliding some debris away with his foot. He ran a hand through his blond hair and nodded.

"No. Well, a little. It's not just losing my job, it's the whole job, the whole idea of it. My whole life. Without it, I have nothing. I don't miss it--I miss how it takes my mind off things..."

"What kinds of things?" Jane put one hand on each of Lisbon's arms and looked down into her face, steering her to lean against the counter; she was having trouble standing up. Hightower had been dead-on when she'd claimed that Lisbon was a damaged person, and Jane had always known that she had secrets. Truthfully, he was elated that she was alright--so to speak. Without thinking, he pulled her close to him, and somehow her head just naturally fit into his shoulder.

"My family. My life. I'm messed up."

"Not as messed up as you will be in the morning." Jane chuckled a little, and Lisbon did not. He tentatively put one hand behind her head and felt her hair.

"What am I going to do? I know it's selfish but what's going to happen now? I can't move to another town and get another job--being an agent is what I'm good at. It's what I'm built for."

"I know. You're right. Hightower is just trying to prove herself. You're going to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and show her that you're not afraid of her." Jane did not let her go. Somehow, it helped him to comfort her. That feeling was back in the corners of his mind, and he couldn't place it, but he thought maybe it was...hope.

"How do I do that?" Lisbon, even when drunk, was no blubbering idiot. She took her rage out on random bottles of booze, but she didn't sob into Jane's chest. She was trying to reason even while she felt her life crumbling all around her. Jane envied her strength.

"Well, I did most of the work for you. I told her I wouldn't work for her if she didn't rehire you."

"What did she say to that, Jane?" Lisbon mumbled quietly, turning to look up at him.

"Well, she threw her paperweight at me." Jane smiled down at the tired face in front of him, rubbing his hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her on the inside. Lisbon cocked an eyebrow. "I survived, obviously."

"Good. Who would I bail out of jail at all hours of the night if she'd killed you?" Her voice was slurred, but her wit was intact. Jane chuckled.

"I knew you'd miss me."

"I would. I'd miss you, Jane."

"You don't say."

"Yeah."

And right then, there was no smiling, no laughter, just a formerly empty man comforting a previously heartbroken woman. Lisbon's face was mere inches away; her arms curled around Jane's neck. For a moment, he thought about closing that distance, the one that kept their relationship professional, or at least friendly. The wedding ring on his left hand burned into his finger. He closed his eyes, and the moment was over.

Teresa Lisbon rested her forehead against Patrick Jane's chin. He tilted his head down slightly to kiss her hair.

"Come on, you need to rest," Jane said, and he stooped down to carefully lift Lisbon up to carry her. "Where is your room?"

"Down the hall, first door on the left."

He carried her to her room and lowered her gently into her bed, before crossing the room to her dresser and selecting a drawer. He fished through it until he found a pair of soft cotton sweatpants, and he lay them beside her on the bed.

"I'll leave you alone to change--I'm going to clean up the evidence of Jack Daniel's violent homicide."

"Jane, you don't have to--"

"Your clothes are dirty, Lisbon," he said, and he left her room, closing the door behind him.

He made his way back to the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves and searched under the sink for a dustpan and a pair of gloves. He swept the shards of glass into a trash bag, tied it off, then filled a bucket with warm water and dish soap and set to scrubbing the stains off the kitchen floor. He was grateful for the time away from Lisbon, because he didn't know what he would do if he was alone with her for another stretch of time. What had almost happened minutes before--he didn't even want to think about it. Lisbon would hate him when she sobered up if he'd taken advantage of her. She didn't know what she was doing; in the morning, she might not even remember that he'd stopped by at all. Which meant he'd have to apologize and explain all over again.

When he had scrubbed every inch of the floor and the doors of the kitchen cabinets, he put away the dust pan, wrung out the mop and put the bag of glass outside in one of the city's large metal trash cans. He looked up at the stars for a moment, and wished for benevolence from someone, somewhere.

He stopped in the bathroom beside the kitchen to wash his hands--and looked at himself in the mirror. Really looked. And he saw a man who had all the answers, who knew everything about everyone just by looking at them. It had been a long time since he'd been able to do that for himself. He looked down at his left hand, and twisted the golden ring on his finger around and around...before removing it slowly, kissing it gently, and putting it in his pocket. He looked at himself in the mirror again, and he smiled.

He knocked on Lisbon's bedroom door and he heard her softly say, "Come in."

He didn't see the dirty sweatpants, and Lisbon had done as he had asked and changed into fresh clothes. He smiled to himself as she lifted up the covers and slid down into her bed, closing her eyes as soon as her head hit the pillow.

"Jane," she said, patting the bed beside her. Jane took a deep breath and went to her side, only to be prompted to sit.

"I can't stay."

"Just lie down with me for a few minutes. Just stay until I fall asleep."

"Lisbon--"

"Jane, don't make me get the taser."

"Yes, boss."

Jane sank down beside her on the bed, kicking off his shoes, but he didn't dare get under the covers with her, and she didn't ask him to.

"I'm great company, huh?"

"A riot," Jane replied.

"Get the light, will you?"

Jane reached over to the lamp beside the bed and flicked it off, plunging the room into darkness. Lisbon didn't speak.

"Are you asleep?"

"No, idiot. I'm thinking."

"You know, you do that all the time. You're not so different when you're drunk than when you're sober." Jane rolled over to his side, trying to get as close to her as he could without touching her.

"Is that a bad thing, Jane?"

"No. 'A drunk man's words is a sober man's thoughts.' So you're always honest, always brave--you hopefully don't always throw things, because let me tell you, cleaning up after you is hard work."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"No, I mean, thank you."

"For what?"

"Taking care of me." Her voice cracked then, and he knew it was nearing the end of their conversation.

"Just returning the favor." He took advantage of the last moment, in which he realized what that nagging feeling had been, the one that plagued him whenever he thought of Teresa Lisbon.

"You do that, you know...for the people you love."

He reached into the darkness and traced the back of his hand against Lisbon's cheek and forehead. She didn't answer, and her breathing was slow and steady. She was asleep.

"Goodnight, boss," he said, and he closed his eyes.

....

The next morning, Teresa Lisbon awoke with a terrible hangover--and found a glass of water and a pill on her bedside table with a note, "For your head. And it's a Tylenol, not a happy pill. Patrick."

"Patrick." She said out loud. "Patrick Jane, this is all your fault."

She swallowed the pill and took a gulp of water before carefully standing and grabbing a robe and some bedroom shoes from her closet. The first pair she tried on were soggy and stained--she didn't know why. She walked down the hall, glanced toward the kitchen--something about the kitchen--and then walked toward her front door. She really, really needed her morning paper and a nice cup of coffee.

She stepped outside, blinking for a moment--then felt something strange under her feet. She looked down to find she was standing on the stem of an elegant, single white rose. She knelt down and took it in her hands, all thoughts of newspapers and coffee and migraines and soggy slippers forgotten. The petals were dewey and beautiful in the morning sun, and they reminded her of something soft and warm and clever.

"Patrick Jane," she smiled, and stepped back inside to make a very important phone call.

End

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